That left Bronc. “I don’t get a vote,” he said. “But if I did—” and here he dropped the mask for just a second—“it’d be a fuck yes.”
I could have said something glib, something to bleed the tension out, but my throat was suddenly full of static. I just nodded, letting it settle over me like a bad tattoo.
“Good,” Bronc said. “Gavel it.” He rapped a fist on the table. “Next, we need a new enforcer. Arsenal, thoughts?”
Arsenal didn’t hesitate. “Finn. ‘Gunner’ Walsh. Cattle foreman. Busted two coyotes last month with his bare hands, then made breakfast for the ranch crew before the sun was up. Never missed a church service. Never missed a Sunday ride. Never snitched, never soft.”
Doc looked skeptical. “He’s what, twenty-six? Kid’s got the emotional IQ of a whitetail.”
“He’s got the fear response of a tornado siren,” Arsenal said, dry. “That’s what I want in an enforcer. Loyalty, speed, and the willingness to go through a wall if I tell him to. He learns the rest.”
Big Papa nodded. “We’ve seen worse.”
“Wrecker, thoughts?” Bronc asked.
“Never had a problem with Gunner,” I said. “If you want him, I’ll break him in.”
Bronc signed off with a wave. “Done. I’ll talk to Gunner tonight.” He eyed Arsenal. “Get the initiation planned. Make it memorable. Next.”
The rhythm of these meetings was clockwork—officers first, then the club business, then the dark shit. The last category was always the longest.
“Now, Skeeter,” Bronc said. “We got him locked up. Someone was pulling his strings, and he ain’t sayin’ who. Before I beat him to death, got ideas?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I gotta lead.”
I leaned in, because the walls had ears, even here. “Server breach two weeks ago wasn’t just the MC. The Dairyville Bank’sdatabase got mirrored. Someone’s been filtering withdrawals and deposits for over a month. I built a dummy network off our own router to feed them fake logins, but they keep coming. Whoever’s running Skeeter is smarter than we thought.”
Arsenal actually looked impressed. “You’re feeding them honey-trap data?”
“Every day,” I said. “So far, they think they’re bleeding us dry. But the money they’re stealing doesn’t exist. Not in the real world. It’s a shell game.”
Doc grinned, the first time all morning. “Beautiful.”
Bronc drummed his fingers on the table. “You got a trace?”
I nodded. “Last ping was from an IP block outside Plainview. Rural. Could be a relay, could be a trailer park. But I’ll find out tonight.”
Big Papa frowned. “Going alone?”
“Yeah, I got this. It needs to be quiet.” He knew I had it under control.
Bronc eyed me one last time, like he was measuring the difference between what I was and what he hoped I’d become. “Don’t die, Wrecker,” he said, not unkindly. “I need someone to give Menace shit when he comes back for a visit.”
The meeting ended in a slow dissolving of bodies—Arsenal out first, then Doc, then Big Papa. Bronc and I were last, and when it was just us, the air in the room got thinner.
“Anything else?” I asked.
Bronc looked at me, and for a moment, he didn’t look like an Alpha, or a boss, or a soldier. He just looked like a man who’d lost too much.
“You sure you want this?” he asked, quiet. “It’s never what you think it’s going to be.”
I thought about the last week—the blood, the betrayal, the way every old story had replayed itself with new actors. I thought about Savannah and Menace, alone up there in the dead heart of the country. I thought about the hollow place inside me that hadnever gone away, not since I was a kid, and learned what it meant to be prey.
“I never wanted anything more,” I said, and for once, I meant it.
Bronc nodded. “Good. Then go break some heads.”
He left, the door closing with a soft click.
